Beneath Maegor's Holdfast, past the treasury that held dragon eggs and treasures, there was one final stone door, firmly closed.
A black dragon on a crimson field was painted upon it, its menacing visage even more striking in the dim treasury light. A gentle push revealed a long, winding secret passage beyond.
Rhaegar stared at the corridor, feeling as if he had entered the gaping throat of some monstrous beast—hidden and endless.
Beneath the Red Keep, secret passages were numerous, a veritable playground for conspirators. Yet none of those passages connected to Maegor's Holdfast. Access to the keep was limited to the drawbridge and the dry, trap-filled moat. No one suspected that the Targaryens themselves possessed a most secret, most secure royal passage.
"Everyone knows that there are tunnels beneath the Red Keep, like webs spun by spiders," Jaehaerys II said. "Only the most cunning ever follow the threads. But even the deepest, most hidden passages cannot compare to this royal passage beneath Maegor's Holdfast, where treasures are stored. This passage is isolated from all others. If you follow it straight, it will lead to a hidden mouth of the Blackwater Rush, where a small boat waits to escape King's Landing."
"These tunnels are our family's safety net," the king continued, voice heavy with fatigue. "But my children… I hope you never need to use them."
The air in the corridor was thin, harsh to the lungs of the ailing king. Every step in this secret chamber was a trial.
Rhaegar peered down the tunnel, imagining the rushing waters of the Blackwater River. The current was swift and treacherous, nearly impossible to swim. Deep and relentless, the river poured into Blackwater Bay, then into the open sea.
Across the waves, at the junction of continents, lay the Stepstones. Though the flames of war still lingered from the death of Maris Blackfyre, compared to the decades-long conflicts with the Three Sisters' Kingdoms, this war was nearing a swift conclusion.
Ships patrolled the waters: longships from the Ironmen, vessels from the Stormlands, the Riverlands, and the Westerlands.
Tents bloomed across Bloodstone Island, as if flowers sprung from battle. Yet the numbers spoke for themselves: the Loyalist army far outmatched the forces of the Golden Company.
White Bull led the vanguard, while Tywin Lannister and Iris commanded the safer middle lines, protected by loyal household guards.
Inside Tywin's war tent, Kevan sat across from him.
Outside, patrols of red-robed men and golden-lioned knights kept watch. They were Tywin's most loyal men—the lions' roar alive and untouchable.
The two Lannister brothers were strikingly similar: golden hair, green eyes, handsome. Yet Tywin would inherit the Westerlands and its wealth, while Kevan would remain his shadow. Born second, Kevan's path was to serve—not to lead.
All second sons shared this fate: advisors, knights, shadows. Some accepted it. Others fled it. And the cruelest occasionally murdered to reshape it. Tywin's grandfather had also hovered under the shadow of fratricide.
"You were able to visit me. Lord Roger didn't suspect?" Tywin asked.
"No. We are brothers. This is simply a younger brother greeting his elder," Kevan replied calmly.
Tywin nodded. Lord Roger, proud and hot-headed, had filled the void left by Uncle Jason's death with reckless ambition. To him, the Lannister brothers were merely children.
"How is Lord Roger now?" Tywin asked. Kevan, as Roger's cupbearer, had his ear on the ground.
"No change. If anything, he has grown more arrogant and reckless. With Uncle gone, he now commands the West's armies and believes himself their master. He treats even our soldiers as pawns, sending them into the most dangerous positions without hesitation."
"Let him be proud," Tywin said coldly. "The more arrogant the enemy, the greater our advantage."
The young lion crouched, ready to strike. Years of insult from House Reyne—the shame brought upon the lions—would be paid in full. Lannisters never forget a debt.
"Reconciliation is impossible," Kevan said cautiously. "But how do you intend to deal with him, brother?"
"How would you deal with him? Hostages, fines, or submission?" Tywin countered.
"I would be severe. Lord Roger's family must repay our gold, provide hostages, pay fines, and we should reduce their lands," Kevan said. This was cold, precise—the same treatment Tywin had meted out to rebellious nobles during the Blackfyre Rebellion.
"Go further," Tywin said, his green eyes flashing with icy resolve.
Kevan felt the chill. He understood: eradicate Lord Roger and his line, leave nothing behind. Young in years, yet ruthless and merciless beyond measure.
"You do not oppose me?" Tywin asked.
Kevan shook his head, silent. He had recognized his brother's talent and brilliance. To restore the lion's glory, he would serve, even if it meant living in Tywin's shadow.
"We cannot trust the king, nor the Small Council," Tywin continued.
The Targaryen dynasty was built on dragons and vassals' loyalty, not on land or mines. Once the dragons were gone, control over the lords waned.
Kevan glanced around, alert. Though they were still some distance from the Targaryen camp, he knew the threat of spies.
"The prince sleeps, and our affairs need not trouble him," Tywin said, waving a hand.
He had lived in King's Landing long enough to see the Targaryens' weakness.
"The prince's crown is born of destiny," Tywin murmured, "but we must secure our own path to power."
Though he called Iris a friend, Tywin did not truly respect him. The boy was merely a noble born to a crown handed down. In matters of strategy, courage, and cunning, he had no edge.